


The Taylors Three

by theoriginaldylan



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: Comedy, M/M, Satire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoriginaldylan/pseuds/theoriginaldylan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first of three works in the Taylors Three collection, it's 2002 and Duran Duran are back on a tour bus, bored out of their minds.  How to pass the time?  The Taylors play cards, while Nick and Simon....read on to find out!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taylors Three

“Taylor!  I need a Taylor in here!” Simon yelled, his voice carrying loudly and sharply from behind the closed door.

Roger, Andy and John were seated around a small table on their tour bus, engrossed in a game of Hearts.  They had been playing for two hours already and John had fifteen more points than Roger and ten more points than Andy.  John was losing but the margin was close.  He had been looking at the Queen of Spades in his hand and pondering which one of his friends across the table deserved it more:  Andy, or Roger.

“Taylor!  Any Taylor will do!”  Simon yelled.

“Your turn, John,” Andy remarked, setting down his cards to light a cigarette.

“Roger took the last hand, it’s his lead,” John said, looking miffed.

Roger stared at John across the table.  “That’s not what he meant,” he said, and nodded his head behind him and to the right, in the general direction of the agitated voice drifting towards them.

“Damnit I need a Taylor NOW!”

“Fuck!” John exclaimed, slamming his cards face down on the table.  He regarded his friends sitting across from him, Andy to John’s left and Roger to his right.  “It can’t be my turn,” he whined, looking from one to the other.

Andy and Roger nodded in unison.

John smacked the table, saying, “And it was a damn good hand!  I hate these meaningless interruptions!”

“Bloody hell, he’s got the Queen,” Andy murmured, smoking his cigarette idly.  John tried to keep his face neutral, but he ended up scowling in his frustration.  Andy smiled knowingly, satisfied that he had correctly ascertained the contents of John’s hand.

Roger filed his cards into a neat pile and laid them carefully on the table.  “Run along, John.  The sooner you go, the sooner we finish the game.”

John fumed.  Andy and Roger were both smirking at him.  He felt like they were ganging up on him, but John knew it was indeed his turn, and he had to get up and attend to Simon, still yelping at them from behind the door.  “Taylor Taylor Taylor!  Do I have to come get you my damn self?!”

John sighed and submitted to his task.  He stood up, eyeing Andy and Roger suspiciously.  “Don’t you dare look at my cards,” he said, admonishing both of them.  He started the short trip to the door, right behind Andy and Roger.

“We already know you have the Queen!” Andy called, and John heard them both chuckle lightly.

John rolled his eyes and mumbled.  He pushed open the small door to the back room, the so-called “recreation” area of the large tour bus.  Simon was standing furiously with his arms crossed, his eyebrows furrowed as he eyed John sternly.  Nick was sitting on the couch to Simon’s left, one leg thrown over the armrest, concentrating intently on a magazine.  “Your turn, eh, John?” Nick commented, his eyes fixed on the pages before him.

“What is it, Charley?  And please make it quick.  I have a game of hearts to attend to.”  John was angry.  He wanted Simon to hurry up and say what he had to say, and let John return to his game.

Simon kept his stern stance.  Finally, he addressed John.  “John Lydon.”  He paused.  “Public Image, Ltd.”  John nodded.  Simon was referring to Johnny Rotten’s band after the rise and fall of the Sex Pistols.  “Second album,” Simon continued, raising an eyebrow, questioning.

“ _Second Edition_ , right?” John asked his curiosity now peaked.  The record was an odd combination of dissonant, bass-heavy music and twisted poetry, a two-album exploration of the stranger and more obscure areas of Mr. Lydon’s mind.

Simon kept his arms folded and screwed up his mouth in concentration.  “Describe _Second Edition_ in one word, John.”

John considered it.  “Arrogant, artistic rubbish.”

“That’s three, John,” Nick commented from the couch.  “Simon asked for one.”  Nick appeared to still be concentrating on his magazine, addressing John without looking up.  Simon continued eyeing John sternly, waiting for a proper response.

“Rubbish,” John said flatly.  Nick snickered lightly and looked up at John.  He quickly covered his mouth with the back of his hand, barely hiding the smug grin that had appeared across his face.

Simon still had his arms folded but now he was regarding John with shock.  John folded his own arms in defiance, staring Simon in the eye.

“You can’t be serious,” Simon said.

“Why not?” asked John.  “The music was disjointed, John wailed the nonsense lyrics tonelessly, and it droned on for not one but _two_ LPs.  After the Sex Pistols, who wants to hear Johnny Rotten bark out lyrics that are essentially bad bloody poetry?”

Simon fumed.  “The lyrics were brilliant!” he exclaimed.

Nick dropped his hand from his mouth and looked at Simon.  “You’re only upset because you didn’t write it yourself,” he commented.  “‘Gorging Your Sanhedralite’ indeed.”  Nick slapped his magazine for emphasis.

“At least we had the sense to put your arrogant, artistic rubbish to good music,” John chimed in.

Nick snickered again.  “He’s got you there, Charley,” he quipped.

Simon snapped his head around and pointed his finger at Nick.  “ _Second Edition_ was a brilliantly sculpted body of work that defiantly backlashed against Johnny’s own stereotyping into the punk rock genre, which by that time had become so mainstream that it ceased to be rebellion!”

Nick laughed openly.  “How can you say that?  Their first album was brilliant, _Album_ was brilliant, and in _Flowers of Romance_ you find the backlash you so desperately want to attribute to…”

Simon interrupted, moving a step closer to the couch, putting both hands on his hips.  “Excuse me??  You can’t seriously…”

“I can, Charley!  And allow me to continue.  Their album _This is What you Want_ was an amazing…”

“It’s disco!” Simon yelled, his nose wrinkling with distaste at the mention of that particular musical genre.

“It is a _mockery_ of disco,” Nick said, blinking his eyes slowly to emphasize his point.

John carefully backed out of the room.  Simon and Nick were in a heated debate and John was more than ready to return to his game.  John closed the door quietly and settled back into his seat at the table, as a sarcastic rendition of Public Image, Ltd.’s  “This Is Not a Love Song” came barreling from the other room.  “Not a love song…not a love soooonnn-GA!”  Simon’s voice wailed in a highly feminized impression of John Lydon’s characteristic squeal.

Andy smoked contemplatively and arched an eyebrow.  “Johnny Rotten again?”  John picked up his cards and nodded, sighing.  “Artistic and musical merits of Public Image, Ltd’s second album, _Second Edition_.”

Roger picked up his cards and turned his attention to which one he was going to place to lead the next hand.  “It’s rubbish,” he murmured.

“Rubbish,” Andy agreed, regarding his own cards.  He peered over the table at John, wondering whom he was going to try and stick with the Queen of Spades.

John was looking at his cards, contemplating the same question regarding his Queen.  Roger was the leader in this game; he should definitely try and give him the thirteen points.  But John thought Andy was a bit irritating on this particular road trip and he thought he might just force it on him as an act of spite.

John looked up from his cards for a moment, addressing Andy and Roger and returning to their earlier comments.  “That’s what I told Simon.  Rubbish.”

Roger cringed.  “Oooh…I know he hated you for that.”

John shrugged.  “He asked my opinion, I gave it to him.”  All three tuned their ears to the noises coming from the other room.  Simon was yelling and Nick’s voice was a quiet but persistent murmur amidst Simon’s feverish ranting.

“I hope they stop arguing soon.  It’s getting on my nerves,” Andy remarked, taking another drag from his cigarette and looking at John.  “How long are we on this damn bus?”

John turned his wrist to look at his watch.  “One hour,” he said simply.

Andy groaned and put his head on the table, shaking it back in forth with misery.  “They better stop or I’m bloody well going to shoot myself,” he said, lightly tapping his forehead on the surface of the table.

Roger squeezed Andy’s shoulder reassuringly.  “They’ll stop.  You know they always do.”  He squeezed Andy’s shoulder once more and then turned his attention back to his cards, finally picking one and making the lead.

John grinned.  Roger led with a seven of clubs and John was fresh out of that suit.  He studied the Queen in his hand and rubbed his chin lightly.  He could throw the Queen now, but there was no guarantee Andy would take it.  He suspected Andy was hiding a few low clubs.  He resented the brutal interruption of this game; he had been paying attention before he was so rudely drawn away and he knew if he thought about it he could remember the clubs Andy had already played…

“TAYLOR!”

Andy snapped his head up from the table.  John looked across the table at both Roger and Andy, and they were staring at him expectantly.  John threw his cards on the table.  “No friggin’ way!” he yelped.

Roger lifted his right hand and presented his palm to John, all five fingers splayed.  He grinned and began wiggling his fingers, teasing him.  Andy put his cards down and his cigarette in the ashtray.  He leaned across the table, giving John a sly expression.  “Five minute rule,” Andy said, and leaned back.

Roger put his cards down and his left hand joined the right; palm outwards, fingers splayed, wiggling.

John stayed put with his lips pursed.  There was no way he was going back there again, right when he was getting ready to play his Queen.

“DAMNIT!  I need a Taylor!”

Andy and Roger were both grinning at John.  Andy said, “Five minute rule,” again and shrugged.  Roger chimed in, “Five minute rule, mate, you gotta go.”  Andy and Roger looked at each other briefly, turned back to John and started chanting simultaneously, “Five minute RULE!  Five minute RULE!  Five minute RULE!”

Roger dropped his hands from his mocking position and started snapping his fingers with the chant.  Andy started swaying back and forth with Roger’s snapping, and soon the two of them were engaged in a chair dance, grinning at John and chanting, “Five minute RULE!”

“Alright already!” John snapped.  He stood up and marched back to the door to the rear room, mumbling, “Who’s goddamn idea was that, anyway?”

He opened the door as Roger and Andy both stopped chanting and yelled, “Yours!” in unison.  John closed the door behind him shutting out the other Taylors’ taunting laughter.

Simon was standing as he was earlier, facing John with his arms crossed.  He looked smug this time, somewhat pleased with himself – although still agitated.  Nick however had thrown aside his magazine and was also regarding John with a stern expression.  He was sitting upright now on the couch, legs and arms crossed, and his face was flushed.  His green eyes were sparkling with anger.

John looked between the two of them and finally broke the silence.  “Well??”

Simon said, “Roger Waters, _Radio K.A.O.S_.”

John was perplexed.  “What?  How did you get from John Lydon to…”

“Answer the question, John.”  Simon was glaring at him, anxious.

John sighed and addressed Simon.  “A pale imitation of Pink Floyd’s thematic LPs.  Interesting conceptually, but disappointing musically.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Simon, dropping his arms and turning to Nick.  He pointed his arm in John’s direction and exclaimed, “See?” with triumph.

Nick turned his gaze slowly to Simon.  “See what, Charley?”

Simon looked at John again, gestured towards him excitedly, and then turned back to Nick.  “It’s horrid!” he yelled.

“I never said I liked it, Simon, I only said it was interesting thematically.  Therefore, it appears that John is actually agreeing with _me_.”  With that Nick unfolded his arms, snatched up his magazine, and quickly buried his nose in the pages, feigning to read.

Simon’s eyes opened wide.  “Wanker!” he cried.

“Oh yes, I love it when you insult me, luv,” Nick said, staying focused on the pages in front of him.

Simon moved closer to the couch as John looked on silently.  Simon pointed an accusing finger at Nick and started, “You said…”

Nick looked up sharply.  “Throw your bloody tantrum somewhere else.  I’m not in the mood.”  His face was bright red, and his eyes were glittering.

John backed out of the room slowly and closed the door.  As he turned to resume his place at the table, the angry banter continued through the door.

John sat down heavily and exhaled with relief.  He snatched up Andy’s cigarettes and lit one.  “Hey!” Andy said, disgruntled.

“With your taunting,” John said, waving his cigarette at Andy and Roger, “and their arguing,” he continued, waving his cigarette at the closed door, “I need one.”  John pulled the cigarette to his lips and took a deep drag.

“Stop whining,” Andy said, lighting his own cigarette.  “Remember when I had to go in there _six_ times in a row?”

Roger turned to Andy and moaned, remarking,  “Ooooh…that was a bad day.”

“Alright!” John exclaimed, hitting the table for emphasis.  “I am hereby changing the five minute rule.  From now on, we can only go for a maximum of two times in any five-minute period.  If he calls again within five minutes of the second time, it is the next bloke’s turn.  Agreed?”

Roger nodded and stretched his hand across the table.  John and Roger shook hands once, hard.  John and Roger kept their hands together and looked at Andy expectantly.  “But that means if he yells again in the next five minutes, it’s my turn,” Andy said sadly.

“Come on, mate, it’s best for all of us,” Roger said.  “You want a repeat of your six trips?”  Andy shook his head, sighed, and finally stretched out his own hand, clasping the other two.  Together the three Taylors pumped their hands in agreement.  They withdrew their hands and all nodded at one another with mutual understanding.

Roger picked up his cards.  “What was it this time, eh?”

John took a drag of his cigarette and picked up his own cards with his free hand.  “ _Radio K.A.O.S._ by Roger Waters.”

Andy eyed John questioningly.  Roger explained, “Concept album.  Akin to _The Final Cut_ and _The Wall_ by Pink Floyd.  A kid with a robotic voice box who receives radio signals in his head calls a DJ and they talk about politics and nuclear war.”  Roger eyed his cards.  “A weak imitation.  Interesting concept…”

“Disappointing music,” John finished.

Roger nodded.  “Nick likes it for the vox effects.”  Now John nodded.

Andy picked up his own cards.  “Blimey.  I’m glad it wasn’t my turn.  It’s worse when we don’t have an answer for him.”

All three Taylors nodded knowingly.  The table was silent while each contemplated the times they had been caught without an opinion when Simon demanded one to fuel his arguments with Nick.

“You hear that?” Andy whispered, breaking the silence.  John and Roger cocked their heads to the closed door, listening carefully.

Roger raised an eyebrow.  “That’s it, then?” he asked.

John shrugged.  “We can only hope.  They have less than an hour now; it was about time they stepped to it.  Andy, go check.”

Andy put his cards down and left his cigarette in the ashtray.  He approached the closed door and pressed his ear to it carefully, listening.  A slow smile graced his lips.  Andy heard a deep grunt that could only be Simon, and a moan that sounded like Nick.  Andy then heard a thump that sounded like a shoe falling to the floor.

Andy sat back at the table grinning and nodding at the other two.  Roger and John both sighed with relief.  “Can we get back to it now?  I have a Queen to make one of you eat,” John said.  He regarded Roger’s seven of clubs, still lying on the table.  He’d decided to throw the Queen now, and take his chance on who would end up with it.

Andy fetched his cigarette with one hand and his cards with the other.  “On the next tour bus, we are requesting no back room.”

Roger shrugged indifferently.  “They’ll just argue in front of us and then shag in the toilet,” he remarked.

“No bathrooms, then!” Andy declared triumphantly.  “Play your card, mate,” he said, addressing John.

John looked at Andy and Roger across the table.  “How many weeks left on the tour?” he asked.  Roger lifted his hand, showed John three fingers, and wiggled them.  Andy and John groaned in unison.

John regarded his cards again and tried to ignore the soft sounds now coming to them from behind the door.  He played his Queen.

“Bastard!” cried Andy, throwing the last club in his hand, a nine.

“Gotcha.”  John smirked.  Andy shook his head and Roger laughed with delight.

And the Taylors played on…


End file.
